


Your Smile Was My Remedy

by MrSpartan



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: ...Even Worse Actually, Alastor has issues, Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Backstory, Bayou Butcher, Crime, Death, Did you expect any different here though?, Dogs, Gen, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Hunt, Hunter - Freeform, Hurt No Comfort, It Gets Worse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets, Justice, Louisiana Bayou, Me Trying To Contribute Something Of Worth To This Fandom, Mental Instability, Poetic Justice, Police, Revenge, Serial Killer, Tragedy, Violence, Why Did I Write This?, You reap what you sow, no happy ending, old-fashioned slang, swamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSpartan/pseuds/MrSpartan
Summary: One should always be moving forward. To look back more often than not would be the death of you. The only thing looking back ever provided was a look at all your mistakes coming right for you, likely wielding a knife in the pale moonlight. Now where would the entertainment be in that? One can't change the past after all. Memories have a funny way of intruding on one’s mind while they sleep though.Alastor doesn't sleep much anymore.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47





	Your Smile Was My Remedy

They were coming.

Alastor threw more of his best formal wear into his suitcase. He grunted. The hinges struggled to fold back down. He frowned as he sat his weight down on it. Not that there was much weight to add considering his tall and rather lithe frame for a man in his early thirties. There was a faint click beneath him. Good, now he only had to pack one other bag he could afford to take. He had to travel light if he wanted to stay a step ahead of the fuzz.

Mimzy had warned him that he had somehow slipped up. Apparently **someone** had tipped off the authorities about the “Bayou Butcher’s” possible whereabouts. Who blabbed? He remembered the long nights of blending into the shadows on his way home and the calculated risks of when to present himself in places as an alibi. He’d been doing things right for years now and the oafish coppers were never any step closer to catching him. It wasn’t his fault.

Alastor smiled to himself. He had not only evaded them, but made them all out as absolute buffoons. He’d even dare to say he’d give old Jack a run for his money. The memory came to him again of himself sitting in his radio booth, reporting on all the notable crime in New Orleans. Such reports often included updates on his very exploits. The ugly and haggard face of the Chief of Police had even come to his show. On the air -live for all to hear- was the exclusive interview! “We are getting very close to catching the killer. The public just needs to keep calm and have a little faith.”

That had been ten months ago.

_Well, even the stupid can get lucky._ He sighed.

Alastor straightened out his back. There was no time to lament past mistakes. He had a train to hop. He would have ample time to review how to improve his nocturnal pursuits in the future. Live and learn as they said.

There was a second light click. He took one last look around his little home. He would miss his cozy reading nook by the fireplace. He too would miss the wonderfully equipped kitchen as well as the burgundy bedroom with the well-loved copy of Ulysses on the night stand. He’d miss the dark, cold, stony confines of his sound proofed shack, hidden in the relatively close bayou behind his house.

_Ah, c’est la vie._ He idly pondered who would appreciate discovering its contents more, the police or the gators.

Alastor almost jumped as he heard a sudden hard banging. He frowned and perked up an eyebrow at the window. The vivid reds, yellows and pinks of the sky were giving way to darker indigos and purples. There didn’t seem to be any hullabaloo going on outside and his neighbors didn’t own any noisy pets.

There came another banging on the entrance to his personal hideaway. His muscles stiffened, but only for a moment. He adjusted his suit and bowtie; donned his best smile and sauntered downstairs to the front door. “Gooooood-evening, officer! What brings you to my carefree cottage all the way out here?”

There on his doorstep was a rather large and imposing man in uniform. He was all muscle and intensity. His eyes held a distant stare. His face was creased with deep frown lines while heavy bags hung below his eyes. He was truly the antithesis to the radio man’s ear to ear smile. Alastor glanced past him. The man seemed to be here by himself with no partner nor army of officers to take him in. Not that Alastor could have possibly missed such a spectacle.

“I’m just here on account of a noise complaint from the neighbors. Are you Alastor from the radio show ‘A Midday Serenade’?” he questioned.

His tone was miles more casual then his pensive stare suggested. Perhaps that was just how his face looked. A shame that.

“Ho-ho why yes indeedy I am! You’ve heard of my little program have you?” Alastor waggled a finger like he was chastising a tot for fibbing. With a flourish that would make street magicians jealous he materialized his card from thin air, offering it to the officer. It was signed of course. “Are you a fan of miiine?”

The other man for his part just stood in the doorway, quietly staring. He did take the card though. “Everyone at the precinct has heard about you.”

Alastor slowly folded his hands behind his back, fidgeting. “Well I’m **deeply** sorry if I’ve been causing a ruckus for anyone nearby. It comes with the job of course you know. I do have to keep these pipes of mine in shape for the broadcast. I wouldn’t want to catch a frog in the middle of a show after all! Would you care to come in for a quick cup of coffee? I know how hard you boys work to keep us all safe. In fact, I’d be more than happy to show you some of my radio equipment. It really is just berries! Its nothing like those little homestead models. It’s the technology of the future today if you ask me!”

Such a pitch normally enthralled anyone he threw it to. Nary a soul in New Orleans turned down a behind the scenes invitation from the famous radio man. Still, if looks could kill, this man would be a far better killer than Alastor was.

“No thank you. I believe I’ve seen enough, good-bye.” With that, he turned around and left.

Alastor waved amicably as he gently shut the door, smiling all the while.

“ **DAMN IT!** ” he cursed once he was completely sure the officer had departed from ear-shot. The tumbling of books and the splintering of wooden shelves bounced around his ears. It had taken him an embarrassingly long time to notice it. He’d been so focused on his façade and the sudden arrival of a cop that it had taken half-way through the conversation before he realized. The other man had dressed up properly except for one major thing.

_He wasn’t wearing his badge._

The “noise complaints”? His coming by himself? No badge?! But the uniform was real. It had to be real. Alastor had seen those cloths more than enough…

Dogs were barking.

He leapt for his back door in a flash. It was time to skedaddle! In his rush he only grabbed one of bags and the gleaning sharpened knife from his kitchen. Old habits died hard and so did fools who forgot to leave their homes without a weapon in hand.

Past the metal fence, past the hidden shack, past the tree-line he ran. Soon his immaculate dress shoes and trousers were soiled with his black and white dress shirt doing its best to follow suit. He was a jackrabbit hopping over and under every obstacle, every low-hanging branch. He would loose them in the swamps.

He’d done it plenty before when his father would return home filled with ire at his lack of things in life. It never mattered what exactly; whether he was bemoaning his lack money due to being stuck taking care of the brat that “probably wasn’t even his anyway” or missing out on a poker game or simply because mother hadn’t cleaned up the house fast enough again. All that mattered was that he could let out his frustrations on those trapped in his household. He’d beat mother until she could barely move the next day, her long dress hiding the extensive bruises. Then when he’d tired of beating her and berating her on how much of worthless burden she was, he’d turn his disappointment to Alastor if he was still in the house. At first Alastor hadn’t known what to do when he was much younger. Then he’d grown a little and made the mistake of trying to stop his father. A broken nose and a couple missing teeth taught him never to try that again. That had been the first time he’d tasted so much blood all at once. Then of course he’d tried to hide in the house until father calmed down. The old man found him every time. It became a game to his father, like the deer hunts he so loved. All that was left to do was run until nightfall, just like he was doing now.

The agile man kept an eye out for the little pathways and stepping stones he could use to hasten his step and keep away from the deeper parts of the swamp. It really did remind him of his childhood. Alastor cursed his bastard father’s name as he hopped from another downed tree carcass to a new rock. Perhaps the old prick was cursing him from beyond as well because as soon as he uttered the words he slipped on that rock. It wasn’t nearly as set in place as he had first thought.

The muck greeted him with its smothering warm embrace. He struggled to pull himself out of the suction-cup-like grasp. Looking around brought about the clashing colors of his night-shirt floating in the muddy water, along with the rest of his things. He was loosing time. His eyes moved over to his hand. In it still rested the hilt of his knife. It was all he strictly needed. It was all he ever needed. He’d make due. On the path again, he hopped to and fro. He just had to make it to the train yard. He **would** make it to the train yard.

Something splashed behind him.

He barely turned in time to brace for the Doberman lunging at his face. It was a black blur of death. Its gnashing teeth and eyes flashed in the rapidly fading light. It was almost completely dark now, but not quite. He almost couldn’t hear its barking over the blood pumping in his ears and his own struggled splashes. A fountain of red erupted from his forearm. Its sacrifice was the only thing keeping those little daggers from slamming into his skull. He had a dagger of his own though.

Alastor found himself relying again on the only good lesson his rotten father had ever inadvertently passed on to him. **_Go for the throat._**

The familiar wet sound of metal piercing jugular confirmed that he had hit his mark; but the stupid mutt went limp on top of him. Being half submerged in putrid filth and death, it took all his strength to push it off and pull himself out. Both his knife and arm were soaked with blood in the rising moonlight. He smiled from ear to ear.

It was intoxicating! Being so close to death was something he had almost forgotten since his teen years. The kill was cathartic yes, but a true challenge like this had all but eluded him for years. He had become **too** good at picking, luring and otherwise hunting his targets. Any fight they put up was meager and predictable at best. This reminded him of a part of why he decided to grace his targets with his game to begin with. They should all count themselves lucky. What good is a life where one isn’t really living? There was nothing else on earth like this feeling. The fear and the passion and sheer beauty of it all blended together like nothing else! This was real entertainment. One should go out with a bang after all, not a whimper.

Something tackled him from behind.

He hadn’t enough time to turn around as it sunk its teeth deep into his collarbone. Something snapped that wasn’t supposed to. He screamed. The beast was on his back as he fell to his knees. Its untrimmed claws scratched up his back, drawing more blood. Where was his knife? He needed his knife!

More black-furred meteors impacted his body. They tore holes in his suit and ripped into his flesh. The four of them all pulled at him at once. The first had the same sense Alastor had and was inching dangerously close to his neck from his collarbone. Another smelled blood in the water, tearing into his already savaged forearm. He felt fangs scraping on bone. A third decided to even things out and was practically ripping off fingers on the other limb. The last was content to just tear into his calf, darkening the water further.

The demons all pulled in different directions like a torture rack. Alastor screamed again. He hadn’t shrieked like this since the last time he has seen his mother. A vision of her came to him in that moment of agony. Her beautiful hair and simple blue dress blew in the gentle wind. The autumn leaves dancing down from the tall tree in their back yard. He could almost feel her soft hand in his as he reached up to hold on to her. The wind had picked up and she began to sway along with the tree branches.

There was so much pain. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before. It was blinding. It was deafening. All his senses were pushed to the very back of his brain to make room for the unparalleled volume of pain. He felt another finger break, or maybe it broke off. It was hard to tell since it was all starting to blur together. Was this what it felt like? Ah but no, he had always been a gentleman about it all. He only went after prey that neared him first. He played his game as the harmless host, had a bit of fun. When it came to the coup de grace though, he always was quick and efficient. There was no need to be a savage about the whole thing. Besides it was distasteful to drag things out past the curtain call, especially when the prey was polite or understanding about how they lost.

The hounds were pulling harder now. Something riled them up as Alastor was on his back now, being torn limb from limb. The beast near his neck decided to move to the side of his face for a brief moment, too stupid to go for the kill apparently. He heard more splashing from further off before that ear was ripped off by the dog. His entire face now felt wet with a combination of swamp water, saliva, blood and tears. Wait, when had he started crying? That wouldn’t do.

_Please don’t cry, Al. Your father will be here soon. You’re never fully dressed without a smile you know_ , she had said.

He forced a smile as best he could through the pain. It wouldn’t be fitting to be indecent in front of his hunter. A whistle pierced the humid air. The hounds lessened their destruction of his body. Alastor looked with the one eye he still had that wasn’t blinded by his own blood. Ah and there came the man of the hour, holding a hunting shotgun in his white knuckled hands. He would have given him a bravo if he weren’t otherwise indisposed. So this was the man who had bested the “Bayou Butcher”. He must have been proud.

That thousand yard stare aimed at Alastor again. Was there really not even a little joy he gained from the victory? Were it not for Alastor’s own ragged breaths and the low snarling from the dogs, it would have been as silent as a grave.

_My grave._ Alastor thought with a humorless grin.

Minutes passed and he wondered if perhaps the other man expected him to say something. Maybe the other man expected Alastor to try and explain his actions. By the way his distant eyes subtly shifted every few seconds though, Alastor would have guessed the officer was thinking of something else. Perhaps he was thinking of a snappy one-liner.

“…you murdered my baby girl.”

_Oh_. Al looked down for second. A cavalcade of faces marched across Alastor’s swimming head. None of them in particular sprang forth. He tilted his head a bit and looked back at the hunter, still forcing the smile past the pain. “Which one was that?”

Tense silence followed those words, then a sharp whistle.

“ **AAAAAHHHNNNNNGGGNNNNNGGGHHH!!!** ”

The hounds were tearing him apart again, five-times more vicious than before. Alastor felt muscle and sinew being slowly ripped away from bone. Al was eating meat from another deer his father brought from a hunt as the old man listened to their radio. It was the only time his father ever actually smiled. He would make his family all smile together like that some day.

Alastor’s jaw clenched hard against the shredding; teeth chipped and cracked. They’ll grow back his father said. Al was young and they would grow back as long as he never raised a hand against his father again. Surely he could manage that.

Alastor barely managed to avoid biting off his own tongue. Mother kept so quiet when father was around –she was like another person– as if saying anything would set him off. She had so little confidence against him she’d never say a word until it was just her and Al. Those were getting harder and harder to come by.

Blood and a darkened sky filled Alastor’s vision. It was dark when father finally arrived and cut his mother down. They were both silent for hours. The whole time Al hoped that his father would finally acknowledge how he treated her, that he might tell Al that things would be different now or that his mother would wake him and say it was all a nightmare. “This is your fault you know.”

Throughout it all, Alastor refused to drop the smile. Al kept smiling as he used the sharp knife from the finished jack-o-lantern his father hadn’t bothered to toss yet. He carved and carved and carved; his father’s glassy eyes still looked up at Al with hatred and disappointment.

Alastor felt nothing but pain. Al felt nothing but happiness when he ran to his mother who held her arms wide open in anticipation. He hugged her with the intent of never letting go, and then he woke up.

Alastor could barely keep his eyes open as something cold and metallic pressed against his forehead. Al felt like he was about to be sick as he stared at his newest victim. He hadn’t planned on this one; she had just walked right in when he was moving the body. He had to kill her! Now he had two corpses to remove. He had two corpses and for once the hunt brought him no joy. He’d have to do better. He felt sick. It wasn’t his fault.

It was dark. _Please don’t cry, Al._

A gun clicked. _Your father will be here soon._

Dogs were barking. _You’re never fully dressed without a smile you know._

They never found his body.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this type of story has been done before with Al, but I did my best take on it with hopefully enough flair for you all to enjoy, or not. Let me know what you think in the comments! Point out your favorite parts or where I went horribly wrong. I'll gladly take single sentence comments or jokes related to the story too. Your comments give me joy more than any anonymous "kudos" could ever do! Also I can’t learn how to suck less if nobody tells me what I did well or wrong. Also I just really like to talk about Hazbin with people who don't hate the concept.


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